ELIZABETHAN   HUMOURS 

AND     THE 

COMEDY  OF   BEN  JONSON 

being  the  Book  of  the  Play  of 

"Every  Man  in  his  Humour'' 

1598 

as  produced  by 

The    English  Club  of  Stanford  University 

I  905 


If 


i^SJ^ 


THE 


sHV^V^SSTH 


PAUL    ELDER  AND    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS,  SAN    FRANCISCO 


Copyright,   1905 

by  Paul  Elder  and  Company 

San  Francisco 


The  Tomoye  Press 


Contents. 


Introduction     :  :  :  : 

Elizabethan  Humours    :  :  : 

Jonson's  Learned  Sock        ;  : 

Waller's  Verses  on  Jonson       :  : 

Jonson's  Prologue      :  :  : 

Dorset's  Epilogue  :  :  : 

Dickens  in  Every  Man  in  his  Humour 
Satire  on  a  Paul's  Man  :  : 

A  Satire  on  Humours  :  : 

Herrick's  Ode  to  Jonson         : 


PR  2^^ 


Page 
I 
6 

15 
21 

23 
25 

27 

31 

34 

37 


Illustrations. 


The  Stage       :  : 

Globe  Theatre     :  : 

Bobadil  :  : 

Cob  :  :  : 

Ben  Jonson      :  : 

Title  page  of  first  edition 
Shakspere         :  : 

Burbage       :  :  : 

Garrick  :  : 

Dickens      :  :  : 


Frontispiece 

facing  page   2 

K                    i 

'      6 

(  (                    < 

'    12 

tt                    t 

'    16 

if                    i 

*    22 

ollozving  * 

'    30 

(<         ( 

'    30 

( (         ( 

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f  (         ( 

*    30 

[iii] 


I 


ALF 


o^ 


^^Kj 


Never  again  did  [Jonson's]  genius, 
his  industry,  his  conscience  and  his 
taste  unite  in  the  triumphant  presen- 
tation of  a  work  so  faultless,  so  satis- 
factory, so  absolute  in  achievement, 
and  so  free  from  blemish  or  defect. 

Moliere  himself  has  no  character 
more  exquisitely  and  spontaneously 
successful  than  the  immortal  and 
inimitable  Bobadil:  and  even  Bobadil 
is  not  unworthily  surrounded  and  sup- 
ported by  the  other  graver  or  lighter 
characters    of    this    magnificent    and 

perfect  comedy. 

^  ^  Swinburne. 


[V] 


Introduction. 

THE  Stanford  English  Club  issues  this  little  book  in 
connection  with,  and  in  commemoration  of,  the  pres- 
entation of  Jonson's  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  at 
Stanford  University  in  March,  1905. 
This  is  one  of  a  series  of  presentations  of  old  English 
plays  in  the  Elizabethan  manner,  the  first  of  which  was  the 
revival  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle f\r\  March,  1903.  The  enthusiastic  reception  accorded 
this  effort  encouraged  the  English  Club  to  preserve  the 
Elizabethan  stage  built  for  the  play,  so  that  it  might  be  per- 
manently available  for  such  presentations,  and  to  invite  Mr. 
Ben  Greet  and  his  company  of  English  players  to  come  to 
Stanford  in  the  fall  semesters  of  both  1903  and  1904.  The 
Greet  company  produced,  besides  the  old  Morality  play  of 
Everyman^XyNO  Shaksperean  comedies.  Twelfth  Night  and  Much 
Ado  About  Nothings  and,  last  of  all,  Hamlet^ — the  second  time 
in  America  that  Shakspere's  greatest  work  has  been  produced 
in  full  and  in  the  Elizabethan  manner. 

All  these  dramatic  performances,  including  the  present 
one  of  Every  Man  in  his  Humour^  have  been  based  on  the 
belief  that  not  only  is  there  an  antiquarian  and  scholarly 
interest  in  plays  performed  as  they  were  in  Shakspere's  time 
(without  elaborate  scenery  or  other  accessories  of  the  modern 
theatre),  but  that  there  is  an  artistic  value  in  this  simple 
manner  of  presentation  which  more  than  compensates  for  the 
loss  in  superficial  brilliancy.  Many  a  lover  of  the  drama 
said,  in    effect,   after  seeing   the  play  of  The  Knight   of  the 


Burning  Pestle:  "Hitherto  I  have  always  felt  some  pity  for 
the  Elizabethans  as  having  to  see  Shakspere's  plays  presented 
with  the  crudeness  of  the  early  theatre,  the  changes  of  scenery 
being  left  largely  to  the  imagination;  but  I  now  feel  that  they 
were  more  fortunate  than  modern  play-goers."  That  is  to  say, 
the  imagination  may  be  trusted.  As  Dr.  Johnson  put  it,  in 
his  defense  of  Shakspere's  plays:  "It  is  false  that  any  fiction 
is  mistaken  for  reality.  .  .  .  He  that  can  take  the  stage  at  one 
time  for  the  palace  of  the  Ptolemies,  may  take  it  in  half  an 
hour  for  the  promontory  of  Actium."  One  may  go  fur- 
ther, and  observe  that  the  constant  changes  of  locality  in  the 
Elizabethan  drama  were  devices  fitted  to  the  stage  conditions 
of  the  time,  and  seem  much  less  strange  and  venturesome 
when  scene-unity  is  maintained  than  when  the  stage-manager 
tries  to  keep  up  with  them  with  the  aid  of  all  modern  mechan- 
ical ingenuity. 

The  stage  built  for  the  English  Club  plays  is  modeled 
in  part  on  that  of  the  Swan  Theatre  as  represented  in  the 
drawing  handed  down  from  1596,  which  was  reproduced  in 
the  book  of  The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle.  The  description 
which  accompanied  the  sketch  in  that  book  may  well  be  in 
part  repeated  here.  The  stage  structure  is  shown  up  to  the 
very  eaves  of  the  roof^  which  must  be  conceived  of  as  sloping 
away  into  the  open  sky.  The  stage  itself  should  be  thought 
of  as  extending  into  the  pit  of  the  theatre,  so  that  the 
"groundlings"  (who  paid  only  for  standing  room)  can  look 
over  the  sides  of  it  as  well  as  the  front.  The  rear  portion 
is  covered  by  a  roof  supported  at  the  front  by  two  carved  pil- 
lars, and  between  these  pillars  a  curtain  (called  a  "  traverse") 


Oh 
5  X 

>  2 

2  H 


DIVERSITY 

■jF 


can  be  drawn  when  occasion  requires,  thus  dividing  the  main 
stage  into  two  parts  —  the  inner  and  outer.  A  third  stage  is 
formed  by  the  balcony  at  the  rear,  which  is  also  used  as  a 
sort  of  players'  gallery  when  not  required  for  action.  Nor- 
mally the  background  represents  the  exterior  of  a  house,  with 
two  entrance  doors;  but  in  the  action  one  of  these  doors  may 
represent  a  scene  widely  separated  from  that  indicated  by  the 
other.  There  are  also  supplementary  entrances  and  exits 
through  the  arras  hangings  at  either  side.  Behind  the  stage 
are  the  "tiring-house"  and  property-room.  At  the  edge  of 
the  stage,  on  either  side,  we  have  a  glimpse  of  the  boxes  used 
by  the  musicians  and  those  rented  by  aristocrats,  called  the 
"lords'  rooms."  Not  content  with  these  fairly  conspicuous 
seats,  the  young  gallants  of  the  period  occupy  portions  of  the 
stage  itself;  for  an  extra  sixpence  they  are  admitted  through 
the  tiring-house,  and  the  theatre-boys  will  then  rent  them 
stools  for  sitting  in  full  view  of  the  audience.  Finally,  over 
the  tiring-house  is  the  elevated  lodge  or  tower,  visible  also 
from  outside  the  theatre,  where  the  flag  flies  to  indicate  that 
a  play  is  on  the  boards,  and  in  the  window  of  which  appears 
the  trumpeter  who  announces  the  time  for  its  beginning.  If 
the  spectator  will  shut  out  from  his  mind's  eye  the  more 
modern  surroundings  of  the  stage,  imagining  instead  of  them 
the  gallery  boxes  continued  around  the  whole  circle  of  the 
hall,  and  the  pit  filled  with  a  good-natured,  jostling  crowd  of 
London  citizens,  he  will  be  prepared  in  spirit  to  see  the  old 
play  as  given  in  1598. 

The   play  of  Every  Man  in  bis  Humour  was  chosen  for 
reproduction   partly  because  it  is  the  work  of  the  only  Eliza- 

[3] 


bethan  dramatist  of  the  first  rank  who  has  not  yet  been 
represented  on  the  Stanford  stage,  partly  because  of  the 
interest  of  the  play  as  picturing  the  life  of  its  period,  and 
partly  for  its  historic  interest  in  the  progress  of  the  drama. 
It  was  the  earliest  of  Jonson's  comedies,  and  represents  his 
deliberate  choice  of  the  realistic  in  preference  to  the  ro- 
mantic drama.  As  Professor  Herford  observes  in  this  con- 
nection: "No  other  play  in  the  whole  development  of  the 
Elizabethan  drama  marks  so  distinctly  an  epoch  as  the  great 
comedy  with  which  Jonson  opened  his  career.  .  .  .  None  of 
his  fellows  made  their  debut  with  so  much  of  the  air  of  de- 
liberate innovation.  .  .  .  Shakspere,  though  a  great,  a  far 
greater,  artist,  is  not  primarily  a  theorist  in  art ;  he  does  not 
readily,  or  often,  or  very  energetically,  take  sides  upon  ques- 
tions of  art.  His  probable  first  piece.  Loves  Labour  s  Lost^ 
is  a  criticism  of  contemporary  life,  but  ...  it  is  not  a  criticism 
of  the  contemporary  drama.  The  Every  Man  in  his  Humour 
is  both.  .  .  .  No  English  dramatist  had  yet  attempted  comedy 
on  the  basis  of  so  severe  an  interpretation  of  its  scope,  as  a 
picture  of  follies  and  foibles.  .  .  .  No  more  genuine  sketches 
of  London  character  are  to  be  found  in  the  drama.  They 
are  drawn,  not  from  books  but  from  observation,  and  as  an 
observer  Jonson  had  no  equal  among  his  contemporaries  save 
Shakspere.'* 

This  comedy  was  first  produced  in  1598,  by  the  Lord 
Chamberlain's  Servants  (Shakspere's  company),  and  was  pub- 
lished in  1 601.  Some  eight  years  later  Jonson  revised  and 
altered  the  play,  and  it  is  the  altered  form  (as  published  in  the 
Folio  of  1 6 1 6 )  that  has  always  been  used  for  modern  presenta- 

[4] 


tions.  Few  plays  have  more  interesting  associations  in  connec- 
tion with  the  actors  who  have  produced  them  or  the  occasions 
on  which  they  have  been  revived.  In  the  first  presentation  the 
cast  included  not  only  "Will.  Shakspere"  himself*  but  Rich- 
ard Burbage,  the  leading  actor  of  the  time,  and  Heming  and 
Condell,  editors  of  the  Shakspere  Folio.  In  1675  E.very 
Man  in  his  Humour  was  revived  for  Restoration  audiences  by 
the  Duke  of  York's  company,  the  Earl  of  Dorset  writing  an 
Epilogue,  which  is  reprinted  elsewhere  in  this  volume.  In 
the  eighteenth  century  Garrick  produced  the  play  at  Drury 
Lane,  winning  new  laurels  in  the  part  of  Kitely.  In  the 
earlier  nineteenth  century  Edmund  Kean  and  other  notable 
actors  were  concerned  in  still  other  revivals.  And  in  1845  ^^ 
was  the  first  of  the  plays  produced  by  Charles  Dickens  and 
his  friends  ;  Forster's  account  of  the  performance  is  quoted 
on  a  succeeding  page.  In  brilliancy  of  rendering  the  present 
reproduction  cannot  hope  to  rival  the  work  of  these  great 
artists  of  the  past,  but  it  is  perhaps  not  too  self-indulgent  to 
say  that  the  play  has  never  been  reproduced  with  more  serious 
historic  interest  or  sincerer  artistic  purpose. 


[5] 


Elizabethan    Humours. 

THE  TITLE  does  not  mean  Elizabethan  humour, 
Elizabethan  jokes,  or  Elizabethan  comedies,  but 
something  quite  distinct  from  all  of  these.  Let  us 
go  to  Ben  Jonson  himself  for  a  definition.  In  his 
second  comedy.  Every  Man  Out  of  his  Humour,  he  refers  to 
the  old  theory  that  the  fluids  or  "humours"  of  the  body  were 
four  in  number,  and  that  in  the  normal  man  these  were  pres- 
ent in  just  the  right  proportions. 

**ln  every  human  body 
The  choler,  melancholy,  phlegm,  and  blood 
By  reason  that  they  flow  continually 
In  some  one  part,  and  are  not  continent. 
Receive  the  name  of  humours.'*^ 

He  then  goes  on  to  tell  how  from  this  circumstance  the  word 
gets  a  different  meaning,  and 

*'when  some  one  peculiar  quality 
*  Doth  so  possess  a  man,  that  it  doth  draw 

1  All  his  affects,  his  spirits,  and  his  powers, 

i  In  their  confluctions  all  to  run  one  way. 

This  may  be  truly  said  to  be  a  Humour,'' 

A  character  was  humorous,  then,  when  distinguished  by  some 
exaggerated  trait  of  this  sort;  and  a  picture  or  play  which 
presented  such  a  character  naturally  came  to  be  called  humor- 
ous, too.  Such  characters  were  amusing  through  their  abnor- 
mality, and  aroused  laughter,  though  of  a  somewhat  different 
sort  from  that  awakened  by  wit.  So  it  came  to  pass,  by  one 
of  those  curious  series  of  natural  changes  which  appear  every- 

[6] 


^ 

\ 

w  ^^ 

1 

1 

mwM 

7  V    -"i 

f 

j 

o 

^ 

^p                                JVHavwarq ^ 

BOBADIL. 


where  in  the  history  of  words,  that  a  word  meaning  originally 
something  fluid  came  to  mean  something  amusing.  The  "hu- 
mour" of  Ben  Jonson's  titles  stands  half  way  between  the 
early  meaning  and  the  late. 

The  humours  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  then,  were  the 
characteristic  foibles  or  follies  of  the  men  of  the  time,  which 
made  them  at  once  caricatures  of  themselves  and  fit  subjects 
for  caricature  by  satirist  or  dramatist.  It  was  an  age  of  hu- 
mours, because  a  time  of  such  spontaneity  and  versatility, 
when  Englishmen  felt  the  fullness  of  human  life,  wished  to 
taste  all  of  it  for  themselves,  and  did  not  seek  to  make  them- 
selves monotonously  like  other  men.  The  lusty  exuberance  of 
the  closing  days  of  the  sixteenth  century, —  their  independ- 
ence, intensity,  and  indefatigable  curiosity,  are  vital  sources  of 
the  splendid  mass  of  literature  which  they  produced.  But 
there  was  another  side:  tending  to  exaggerate  themselves, 
these  same  qualities  were  the  sources  also  of  both  folly  and 
vice. 

Jonson  believed  firmly  that  it  was  the  business  of  comedy 
to  caricature  and  make  ridiculous  the  foolish  aspects  of  these 
humours,  and  it  is  interesting  to  find  one  of  his  contempo- 
raries, Nicholas  Breton,  referring  to  his  work  in  this  direction 
as  closely  allied  with  that  of  the  satirist: 

**  '  Tis  strange  to  see  the  humors  of  these  daies : 

How  first  the  Satyre  bites  at  imperfections  :  ^ 

The  Epigrammist  in  his  quips  displaies 

A  wicked  course  in  shadowes  of  corrections : 

The  Humorist  hee  strictly  makes  collections 

Of  loth'd  behaviours  both  in  youthe  and  age  :  ^> 

And  makes  them  plaie  their  parts  upon  a  stage." 

[7] 


The  young  gentleman  of  the  age  was  the  leading  figure 
in  its  gaiety,  and  therefore  in  the  satiric  representation  of  its 
folly.  In  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  Jonson  includes  five 
types  of  this  sort,  similar  but  quite  distinct.  In  general 
the  ambition  of  the  Elizabethan  gentleman  was  to  make  as 
brilliant  a  show  of  himself  as  possible, —  an  ambition  which 
in  modern  society  has  come  to  be  more  generally  attributed 
to  the  other  sex.  He  was  eager  for  the  latest  fashions  in 
rufFs,  doublets,  hose,  garters,  boots,  and  hair -dressing,  espe- 
cially if  they  were  continental  rather  than  English.  Marston 
describes  such  a  young  gentleman  who, 

**  after  two  years'  fast  and  earnest  prayer 
The  fashion  change  not,  lest  he  should  despair 
Of  ever  hoarding  up  more  fair  gay  clothes," 

shows  himself  in  all  his  glory  in  the  London  streets.  His 
ruff  "hath  more  doubles  far  than  Ajax's  shield";  his  hat  a 
"small  crown  and  huge  great  brim,"  with  feathers  filling  all 
the  band;  his  clothes  are  "crossed  and  recrossed  with  lace"; 

**His  clothes  perfumed,  his  fusty  mouth  is  aired. 
His  chin  new  swept,  his  very  cheeks  are  glaired,"  — 

that  is,  made  shiny  with  the  white  of  an  egg.  Joseph  Hall 
pictures  the  same  type  at  just  the  same  time,  as  wearing 
curled  periwigs,  always  "poring  on  their  pocket-glass"; 

**  Tyr'd  with  pinn'd  ruffs,  and  fans,  and  partlet  strips. 
And  busks  and  verdingales  about  their  hips ; 
And  tread  on  corked  stilts  a  prisoner's  pace. 
And  make  their  napkin  for  their  spitting  place. 
And  gripe  their  waist  within  a  narrow  span." 

[8] 


The  young  gallant  is  also  represented  as  eager  for  litera- 
ture. He  watches  the  book -stalls  about  St.  Paul's  church- 
yard for  the  latest  books  of  sonnets,  is  sometimes  represented 
as  reading  Italian  or  Spanish  works  upside-down,  and  zeal- 
ously practices  the  art  of  writing  verses  for  himself  He  is 
no  less  a  warrior,  too,  and  is  prepared  to  hold  the  wall,  as  he 
walks  through  town,  against  any  clumsy  countryman  who 
proposes  to  walk  where  he  will.  He  studies  eagerly  the  latest 
turns  and  terms  in  the  art  of  fencing,  as  they  sift  in  from 
Spain,  and  puts  them  to  practice  on  those  less  skilled  than 
he.  He  is  devoted  to  tobacco  ("drinking,"  not  smoking,  it, 
in  Elizabethan  parlance),  not  because  he  is  a  slave  to  nicotine 
so  much  as  because  the  pleasures  of  this  weed  are  new,  strange, 
and  fashionable.  In  like  manner  he  seeks  after  and  acquires 
all  new  and  strange  oaths.  He  believes  that  life  is  given  to 
enjoy,  and  though  perhaps  without  the  wherewithal  to  buy  a 
dinner,  he  will  in  some  way  manage  to  include  good-fellow- 
ship, the  theatre,  and  the  tavern  in  his  day.  Such  a  day,  in 
the  life  of  one  of  the  more  lazy  and  prosperous  sort,  is  thus 
described  by  John  Davies  of  Hereford: 

**  First,  he  doth  rise  at  ten  ;  and  at  eleven 
He  goes  to  *  Gyls,'  where  he  doth  eat  till  one  ; 
Then  sees  a  play  till  six,  and  sups  at  seven  ; 
And  after  supper  straight  to  bed  is  gone  ; 
And  there  till  ten  next  day  he  doth  remain. 
And  then  he  dines  and  sees  a  comedy. 
And  then  he  sups  and  goes  to  bed  again." 

But  if  not  so  lazy  and  more  given  to  society,  he  has  perhaps 
found   the  entree  to  some  merchant's  house  in  the  city,  and 

[9] 


solaces  dull  days  by  a  flirtation  with  the  citizen's  wife  or 
daughter — not  always  with  undisturbed  outcome.  He  has 
many  good  points,  this  gay  young  subject  of  the  Virgin 
Queen,  but  simplicity  and  downrightness  are  not  among 
them,  as  he  would  freely  confess.  Said  Sir  John  Harington, 
speaking  for  the  gentlemen  of  his  time: 

**Wee  goe  brave  in  apparell  that  wee  may  be  taken  for  better  men  than 
wee  bee  ;  wee  use  much  bumbastings  and  quiltings  to  seeme  better  formed,  bet- 
ter showldered,  smaller  wasted,  and  fuller  thyght,  than  wee  are  ;  wee  barbe  and 
shave  ofte,  to  seeme  yownger  than  wee  are  ;  we  use  perfumes  both  inward  and 
outward,  to  seeme  sweeter  than  wee  be  ;  corkt  shooes  to  seeme  taller  than  wee 
be  ;  we  use  cowrtuows  salutations  to  seem  kinder  than  wee  bee  ;  lowly  obay- 
sances  to  seeme  humbler  than  we  bee  ;  and  somtyme  grave  and  godly  commu- 
nication, to  seem  wyser  or  devowter  than  wee  be."  ^ 

We  must  think  of  Jonson's  Every  Man  in  his  Humour^ 
then,  as  a  sort  of  group  of  Gibson  pictures  of  this  contem- 
porary society;  only  the  dramatist  does  not  at  all  confine 
himself  to  any  one  circle  or  stratum,  but  gives  us  a  cross- 
section  of  life  of  many  kinds,  as  shown  in  a  single  day's  do- 
ings. Every  character  in  the  play  is  not  only  an  individual, 
but  a  type, —  a  humour  personified.  In  many  cases  his  name 
gives  us  a  clue  to  his  trait,  and  suggests  at  once  that  we  are 
moving  in  the  field  of  caricature,  though  among  caricatures 
so  lifelike  that  the  descriptive  realism  of  the  picture  is  quite 
unimpaired.  The  dramatist  says  to  us,  in  effect:  "  Here  is  a 
company  of  my  fellow-Englishmen,  and  to-day  every  man  is 
to  show  his  humour  to  his   heart's  content."   (What  they  do 

*  For  some  further  account  of  the  humours  of  these  gallants,  see  the  two  satires  reprinted    ^ 
at  the  end  of  this  book,  one  of  which  was  originally  published  in  the   year  of  E'very  Man  in   his 
Humour^  and  the  other  a  year  earlier. 

[.o] 


proves  to  be  by  no  means  uninteresting;    but,  while  the  plot     ^J 
of  the  comedy  is   perfect  in  its  way,  it  is   never  allowed  to 
draw  our  attention  from  the  individual  characters  for  whom 
it  exists. 

Five  young  gentlemen,  as  has  already  been  suggested, 
form  the  central  group.  Two  of  these  are  without  salient 
qualities  of  a  ridiculous  sort,  and  are  not  treated  in  the  method 
of  caricature.  Ned  Knowell  is  a  university  man,  lately  out 
of  college,  and  has  the  qualities  of  the  typical  college  man  of 
any  age:  a  lover  of  good  poetry,  good  women,  and  good  fun. 
His  friend  Wellbred  is  distinguished  from  him  only  subtly; 
he  is  an  urbane  young  gentleman,  with  a  vein  of  the  malicious 
concealed  by  his  good  manners,  and  fond  of  a  practical  joke  — 
especially  when  aimed  against  his  elderly  brother-in-law.  The 
three  others  of  the  group  of  friends  are  of  the  caricatured 
types.  Matthew,  called  the  "town  gull,"  is  the  would-be 
lover  of  literature,  with  a  zeal  not  according  to  knowledge, 
who  unerringly  selects  the  worst  in  contemporary  poetry  for 
admiration,  and  then  —  not  being  able  to  compose  for  him- 
self—  rehashes  it  as  his  own.  Stephen,  called  the  "country 
gull,"  is  the  young  gentleman  whose  opportunities  for  keep- 
ing up  with  the  fashions  have  been  limited,  and  who  is  there- 
fore, while  in  London,  greatly  concerned  to  learn  the  latest 
oaths  and  to  share  all  the  dissipations  of  his  more  favored 
friends.  And  Captain  Bobadil,  who  is  called  a  "Paul's  man" 
(that  is,  one  who  frequents  the  lounging-aisle  of  St.  Paul's 
in  quest  of  those  from  whom  he  can  extort  a  dinner),  is  the 
master  of  the  sword  and  of  the  laws  of  the  duello, —  so  long  as 
he  is  not  required  to   put  them   into  practice;   together  with 


Shakspere's  FalstafF  and  Beaumont's  Bessus,  he  helps  to  make 
the  great  trio  of  the  coward  captains  of  the   EngHsh  stage. 

Opposed  to  this  group  of  five  young  men  is  one  of  five 
older  men,  who  are  to  some  degree  suspicious  or  critical  of 
the  younger.  Here  again  we  have  some  who  are  presented 
quite  naturally,  without  the  method  of  caricature,  and  whose 
humours  are  such  as  may  be  found  in  humanity  at  any  time, 
rather  than  distinctively  Elizabethan.  Knowell  Senior  appears 
as  the  elderly  gentleman  who  claims  the  wisdom  of  age,  but 
is  not  wise  enough  to  understand  or  keep  up  with  the  hu- 
mours of  youth;  this  is  the  dramatic  irony  which  gives  rise 
to  the  whole  plot.  Master  Kitely  is  the  elderly  husband  of 
a  youthful  wife,  hitherto  a  staid  man  of  business,  but  now 
quite  unable  to  restrain  his  jealous  suspicions,  and  so  driven 
about  by  every  wind  that  blows.  Downright,  his  brother-in- 
law,  is  a  typical  country  squire,  robust  and  dogmatic,  with  all 
the  impatience  of  his  class  for  city  manners  and  follies.  Cob, 
the  water-carrier  (who  traces  his  lineage  to  the  first  red  herring 
that  ever  was  broiled, — "cob"  being  the  familiar  Elizabethan 
term  for  herring),  is  an  oddity  of  low  life,  querulous  of  the 
times,  and  especially  a  despiser  of  tobacco;  he  appears  to  be 
introduced  to  give  us  a  view  of  the  humours  of  a  social  class 
that  otherwise  we  might  not  meet.  And  Justice  Clement, 
whose  genial  figure  dominates  the  closing  scenes  of  the  play, 
is  the  whimsical  Minos  whose  humour  it  is  to  judge  not  by 
the  law  and  the  testimony,  but  by  his  own  sweet  will. 

These  are  the  ten  characters  every  man  of  whom  is 
presented  in  his  humour,  and  who  together  form  a  cross- 
section  of  London    life   in    1600.     There   are  others   in  the 


jvH\>jw^?ij 


COB. 


//     ,  OF  THE     ■*^ 


play,  contributing  their  share  to  its  purposes,  such  as  Cash 
and  Formal,  the  typical  clerks,  and  the  three  women.  Cob's 
wife,  Dame  Kitely  and  her  sister,  who  —  it  must  be  admitted 
—  make  but  trifling  contributions  to  the  picture.  One  cannot 
but  reflect  regretfully  on  the  pretty  story  which  a  dramatist 
of  the  romantic  school  —  Shakspere,  Beaumont,  or  Fletcher — 
would  have  woven  about  the  person  of  Mistress  Bridget, 
whom  Jonson  so  sternly  leaves  in  the  background,  though  he 
sketches  her  in  skilful  outline  and  gives  her  a  part  in  the 
action.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  yet  another  character, 
in  the  portrayal  of  which  the  full  genius  of  the  dramatist  is 
engaged.  This  is  Brainworm,  the  servant,  who  stands  apart 
from  the  groups  already  described,  but  wields  most  of  them 
as  he  will,  and  slyly  conducts  the  great  part  of  the  action  of 
the  play.  Brainworm  is  perhaps  less  an  Elizabethan  than  a 
clever  cousin  of  the  slaves  of  Latin  comedy ;  yet  he  is  very 
much  at  home  in  London.  It  is  his  humour  to  take  any 
shape  he  chooses,  needful  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  pur- 
poses, and  in  this  way  he  dominates  the  situation  like  a 
Prospero  who  is  also  his  own  Ariel.  His  name,  whatever 
its  precise  meaning,  certainly  suggests  the  cleverly  sinuous 
manner  in  which  he  works. 

In  a  comedy  of  this  character,  which  sets  out  to  portray 
satirically  the  fashions  and  foibles  of  a  certain  age,  dealing 
only  (in  Jonson's  own  words)  with 

**  deeds  and  language  such  as  men  do  use. 
And  persons  such  as  comedy  would  choose. 
When  she  would  shew  an  image  of  the  times," 

it  would  be  idle  to  expect  the  same  sort  of  charm  which  the 

[■3] 


/• 


romantic  dramatists  give  us,  surrounding  their  characters  — 
who  hail  indifferently  from  Spain,  Italy,  or  the  Forest  of 
Arden  —  with  the  passions  and  beauties  which  are  of  no  age 
or  place,  but  "for  all  time."  We  must  not  look  for  this. 
In  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  our  interest  is  to  be  primarily 
in  acquainting  ourselves  with  some  of  our  ancestors  in  the 
spacious  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  We  shall  not  find  them 
at  their  best  or  wisest,  but  frankly  on  their  "  humorous"  side. 
Yet  there  are  elements  in  this  comedy,  too,  which  give  it 
other  attractions  than  those  of  merely  satiric  realism.  The 
humours  of  mankind  are  not  altogether  different  in  the  twen- 
tieth and  the  sixteenth  centuries,  and  we  have  found  therefore 
certain  studies  of  human  nature  in  aspects  which  are  never 
obsolete.  Nor  does  the  satiric  method  of  treatment  leave 
one  with  a  bad  taste  in  the  mouth.  Jonson  has  had  the 
reputation  of  being  rather  trenchant  than  kindly  in  dealing 
with  human  faults;  yet  it  cannot  be  for  nothing  that  he 
entrusts  the  disentangling  of  the  threads  of  his  story,  and  the 
awarding  of  judgment,  to  Justice  Clement.  When  the  court 
speaks,  it  is  on  the  whole  to  this  effect:  The  humours 
charged  in  the  complaint  are  absurd  enough,  no  doubt,  and 
when  they  are  the  expression  of  plagiarism  or  poltroonery  they 
must  be  punished  —  yet  even  then  with  nothing  worse  than 
the  loss  of  a  supper;  but  on  the  whole  the  men  behind  them 
seem  to  be  excellent  fellows,  and  the  judgment  of  the  court  is 
that  they  forgive  one  another  and  "put  off  all  discontent." 
Let  us  therefore  acknowledge  this  good-nature  in  the 
words  of  Ned  Knowell :  "  We  are  the  more  bound  to  your 
humanity,  sir."  Raymond  M.  Alden. 

[H] 


Jonson's  Learned  Sock. 

SUBJECT  as  we  all  are  to  the  "sovereign  sway  and 
masterdom"  of  Shakspere,  we  are  prone  to  do  some- 
thing less  than  justice  to  the  master  of  a  wholly  dif- 
ferent school, —  in  some  sense  a  rival  school  of  literary 
art  and  dramatic  craftsmanship.  Since  Lessing  and  Goethe 
all  stars  of  first  magnitude  in  poetry,  in  romance,  in  criticism, 
look  to  Shakspere  as  the  focus  of  their  system.  Such  an  en- 
thusiasm for  Ben  Jonson  as  that  shown  by  Gifford  a  century 
ago,  reactionary  then,  seems  now  impossible.  In  contrast 
with  the  energizing  radiance  of  our  great  luminary,  the  world 
of  Ben  Jonson  appears  lunar,  shadowy,  and  cold.  Yet  a 
world  it  is, —  the  centre  too  of  another  system  than  ours; 
and  failing  to  take  account  of  its  presence  and  influence,  we 
miscalculate  the  forces  at  play  in  the  brightest  heaven  of 
invention. 

Naturally,  perhaps  inevitably,  we  examine  Ben  Jonson 
in  the  contrasting  light  of  Shakspere.  In  life  they  were  fel- 
low-townsmen, fellow-craftsmen,  and,  indeed,  fellows  in  a 
close  personal  sense.  Even  had  Jonson's  temper  been  one 
of  less  acerbity,  it  would  have  been  but  natural  in  him,  the 
equipped  and  accredited  schoolman,  to  look  at  first  upon  his 
elder  rival  as  something  of  an  adventurer.  The  modest 
Shakspere,  like  others,  doubtless  looked  up  to  Jonson  as  to 
a  man  of  superior  training;  and  Jonson  probably  accepted 
the  homage  with  an  easy  sense  of  superiority.  This  view  is 
borne  out  by  the  tone  of  the  remarks  upon  Shakspere  in 
Jonson's  Timber:     "He  was,  indeed,  honest,  and  of  an  open 

[■5] 


and  free  nature;  had  an  excellent  fancy,  brave  notions,  and 
gentle  expressions,  wherein  he  flowed  with  that  facility  that 
sometimes  it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped." 

To  accuse  Jonson  of  superciliousness  in  this  airy  han- 
dling of  the  first  poet  of  the  race  is  little  to  the  purpose.  It 
is  the  business  of  the  critic  to  perceive  and  point  out  the  fact 
that  the  author  of — let  us  say — Romeo  and  Juliet,  in  the  early 
form  represented  by  the  first  Quarto,  needed  nothing  so  much 
as  just  that  tuition  which  Ben  Jonson  of  all  men  was  best 
qualified  to  give.  That  a  spirit  at  once  so  shrewd  and  so 
sensitive  as  Shakspere's  could  come  into  intimate  contact  with 
such  an  intellect  as  Jonson's  without  being  profoundly  influ- 
enced, seems  unlikely.  One  fancies  Shakspere  sitting  down, 
after  a  pulpiting  from  Ben  at  the  Mermaid  upon  the  text  of 
that  Holy  Trinity  of  his,  the  Unities,  to  indite  the  chorus  in 
Henry  V.  which  *' wafts  you  o'er  the  seas."  Is  it  not  "some- 
thing more  than  fantasy"  to  believe  that  Ben's  tuition  counts 
for  something  in  the  reserve  and  concentration  which  mark 
such  masterpieces  as  Othello  and  The  Tempest?  For  such 
service  as  that  here  supposed  Ben  Jonson  would  have  de- 
served well  of  the  Republic  of  Letters,  even  had  he  not  been 
himself  a  great  creative  spirit.  That  he  came  sooner  or  later 
to  realize  the  supremacy  of  Shakspere,  appears  in  the  lines 
"To  the  memory  of  my  beloved,  the  Author  Mr.  William 
Shakespeare:  and  what  he  hath  left  us," — lines  evincing  a 
prescience  seldom  paralleled  in  literary  criticism. 

**  Triumph y  my  Britaine,  thou  hast  one  to  shozve. 
To  zvhom  all  Scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 
He  was  not  of  an  age^  but  for  all  time  l"*"* 

[.6] 


BEN  JONSON. 


VERSriY 


When  these  lines  were  penned,  their  illustrious  subject 
had  been  for  seven  years  in  his  grave  ;  and  doubtless  Jonson 
had  come  to  regard  him  with  a  more  idealizing  vision, — that 
is,  in  this  case  at  all  events,  a  truer  vision.  But  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  Jonson  to  have  forgotten  that  this  was  the  same  "Will. 
Shakespeare"  who  had  played  the  part  of  Knowell  a  quarter 
of  a  century  before  :  then  chiefly  known  for  his  honey-flowing 
rimes  and  for  the  facile  eloquence  that  flowed  so  free  in  the 
speeches  of  Richard  and  Berowne.  Looking  "  upon  this 
picture  and  on  this,"  it  is  surely  legitimate  to  suppose  that 
Jonson  took  some  credit  to  himself  for  the  diff^erence.  Such 
an  interpretation  gives  swelling  significance  to  the  lines  in  the 
Folio. 

The  reader  of  Shakspere  who  takes  up  Ben  Jonson  is 
immediately  struck  by  a  series  of  contrasts,  one  of  the  chief 
of  which  is  implied  in  the  foregoing  remarks.  When  he 
played  a  leading  part  in  Jonson's  first  comedy,  Shakspere  was 
a  relatively  undeveloped  young  man  of  thirty-four.  In  his 
dramas  there  was  seen  as  yet  but 

**  The  baby  figure  of  the  giant  mass 
Of  things  to  come  at  large." 

What  weary  courses  he  had  to  traverse,  what  bitter  cups  to 
drain,  ere  he  could  become  the  creator  of  such  mighty  works 
as  Hamlet  and  Lear^  or  could  arrive  at  such  serenity  of  spirit 
as  breathes  through  The  Tempest  and  The  Winter  s  Tale  I  At 
the  time  in  question,  Jonson  was  the  matured  veteran  of 
twenty-five  :  in  years  a  decade  the  younger  man,  but  as  an 
artist  far  the  elder.      He  was  old  and  wise  with   the  age  and 

['7] 


wisdom  of  the  ancients.  Saturated  with  the  theory  of  Aris- 
totle, eager  to  revive  the  art  of  Terence,  he  may  be  said, 
in  respect  to  maturity  and  equipment,  to  have  started  in  life 
a  quarter  of  a  century  in  advance  of  Shakspere,  who  had  to 
learn  his  art  for  the  most  part  under  the  slow  tuition  of  Ex- 
perience. Jonson,  on  the  other  hand,  seems  to  have  had 
little  to  learn  in  that  school.  Between  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour  and  The  Staple  of  News  there  is  a  lapse  of  twenty- 
seven  years;  yet  the  difference  in  art  and  style  is  less  marked 
than  that  which  may  be  traced  between  almost  any  two  come- 
dies of  Shakspere  that  might  be  named. 

Perhaps  the  reason  for  this  will  become  apparent  if  we 
push  the  contrast  a  little  further.  It  has  become  a  truism  to 
say  that  Shakspere's  art  is  organic:  "the  art  itself  is  nature." 
He  lives  and  loves,  grieves  and  grows,  and,  as  he  puts  his  life 
into  his  plays,  they  come  to  have  the  infinite  variety  of  Na- 
ture herself.  Jonson  studies  and  observes,  painfully  embody- 
ing the  results  in  sharp  outlines.  He  has  the  distinctness, 
the  special  aim,  the  concentration  of  a  Hogarth.  His  pur- 
pose is  satirical  and  didactic.  Witty  and  amusing  as  his  com- 
edies undeniably  are,  they  lack  atmosphere  and  sunshine.  He 
is  caustic,  contemptuous,  rough,  and  his  wish  to  be  honest 
makes  him  too  often  disgustingly  coarse.  Too  long  com- 
merce with  him  leaves  one  depressed  with  a  sense  of  the 
aridity  of  the  life  with  which  he  deals.  Volpone^  for  example, 
considered  as  a  tour  de  force  in  the  handling  of  a  simple  motif 
out  of  which  is  developed  a  highly  organized,  complex  plot, 
is  marvellous;  and  to  one  who  can  for  the  time  being  divest 
himself  of  all  human  feeling,  must  be  highly  diverting.    Much 

[i8] 


the  same  thing  is  true  of  Epiccene^  the  fun  of  which  lies  in 
the  persecution  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  has  presumably 
earned  the  title  to  a  quiet  life,  by  his  graceless  nephew  and 
heir.  The  superb  plot  of  the  Alchemist  is  spoiled  for  us  by 
no  such  associations  of  cruelty,  although  the  satirical  portraits 
of  the  Puritan  Pilgrims  are  anything  but  genial.  Every  Man 
in  his  Humour  and  the  merry  Bartholotnew  Fair  have  an  at- 
mosphere of  cheerfulness  that  is  scarcely  elsewhere  found  in 
the  comedies  of  Jonson.  One  feels  that  all  these  plays  are 
for  the  stage  rather  than  for  the  study. 

Why  then  have  they  not  kep<t  the  stage,  to  which  they 
are  so  well  suited  by  their  firm  draughtsmanship  and  by  their 
ingenuity  of  plot?  Partly,  no  doubt,  because  they  deal  with 
bygone  social  conditions,  and  scourge  strangely  unrecogniz- 
able types  of  folly.  Jonson's  eye,  keen  as  it  was,  failed  to 
pierce  to  the  universal,  as  could  the  eye  of  Shakspere,  in 
whose  dramatis  persons  we  hail  our  own  humanity.  We  take 
sides  for  and  against  Shylock,  just  as  we  do  in  the  case  of 
Cromwell  or  of  Mary  Stuart.  There  is,  of  course,  no  room 
for  two  opinions  about  any  of  Ben  Jonson's  personages:  but 
what  if  there  were? 

Another  reason,  perhaps  a  deeper,  for  Jonson*s  obsoles- 
cence, is  to  be  found  in  the  world's  advance  in  what  we  call 
the  sentiment  of  humanity.  This  writer's  lack  of  human 
sympathy  limits  him  even  as  a  moralist,  so  that,  when  we 
compare  him  with  Shakspere,  his  ethical  judgments  seem  un- 
generous or  mechanical. 

This  negative  view  of  Jonson,  as  he  appears  in  contrast 
with  Shakspere,  should  nowise  blind  us  to  the  solid  qualities 

[■9] 


which  gave  him  such  an  ascendancy  over  some  of  the  best 

spirits  of  his  own  age  and  of  the  age  next  following.     Kitely, 

Abel  Drugger,  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  Corbaccio,  Tribulation 

Wholesome,  Zeal-of-the-Land   Busy  live  in  our  memories  as 

distinct  types.      In   keen  observation  and  unrelenting  realism 

Jonson  is  unsurpassed.      His  immortal  Captain  Bobadil  may 

take  the  wall  of  Parolles,  or  of  any  ruffler  of  the  Elizabethan 

stage,  save   FalstafF  alone.     As  a  master  of  the  economy  of 

plot,  Jonson  is  preeminent:  in  the  matter  of  plot,  perhaps  no 

dramatist  is  more  self-dependent.     Here  Shakspere  may  be 

well  content  to  take  second  place.      Moreover,  Jonson  is  of 

course  a  poet  of  distinction  and  refinement,  whose  sweet  songs 

have  a  singularly  haunting  quality.     Clearly,  he  was  in  his  day 

a  heroic  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the  younger  spirits  of  choice. 

It  is  still  stimulating  to  come  into  contact  with  an  intellect  so 

strong,  honest,  uncompromising.     If  we  cannot  love  him,  we 

cannot  but  respect  him;  and  the  better  he  is  known,  the  more 

appropriate  to  him  alone  appears  the  pregnant  epitaph  "O 

rare  Ben  lonson!"  iv/r  r>     a 

•^  Melville   B.  Anderson. 


[zo] 


Upon    Ben  Jonson, 

the  Most  Excellent  of  Comic  Poets, 

.638. 

MIRROR  of  Poets!  mirror  of  our  age ! 
Which,  her  whole  face  beholding  on  thy  stage, 
Pleas'd  and  displeas'd  with  her  own  faults,  endures 
A  remedy,  like  those  whom  music  cures. 
Thou  not  alone  those  various  inclinations, 
Which  nature  gives  to  ages,  sexes,  nations. 
Hast  traced  with  thy  all-resembling  pen. 
But  all  that  custom  hath  impos'd  on  men. 
Or  ill-got  habits,  which  distort  them  so 
That  scarce  the  brother  can  the  brother  know, 
Is  represented  to  the  wondering  eyes 
Of  all  that  see  or  read  thy  Comedies. 
Whoever  in  those  glasses  looks,  may  find 
The  spots  return'd,  or  graces,  of  his  mind; 
And,  by  the  help  of  so  divine  an  art. 
At  leisure  view  and  dress  his  nobler  part. 
Narcissus,  cozen'd  by  that  flattering  well 
Which  nothing  could  but  of  his  beauty  tell. 
Had  here,  discovering  the  deform'd  estate 
Of  his  proud  mind,  preserv'd  himself  with  hate. 
But  virtue  too,  as  well  as  vice,  is  clad 
In  flesh  and  blood  so  well  that  Plato  had 
Beheld  what  his  high  fancy  once  embrac'd, — 
Virtue  with  colours,  speech,  and  motion  grac'd. 


The  sundry  postures  of  thy  copious  Muse, 

Who  would  express,  a  thousand  tongues  must  use, 

Whose  fate  's  no  less  peculiar  than  thy  art, 

For,  as  thou  couldst  all  characters  impart. 

So  none  can  render  thine,  which  still  escapes, 

Like  Proteus  in  variety  of  shapes. 

Who  was  nor  this  nor  that,  but  all  we  find 

And  all  we  can  imagine  in  mankind. 

Edmund   Waller. 


[22] 


EVERY  MAN  IN 

his  Humor* 

As  it  hathbcenc  fundry  times 

pHblickJy  aBed  by  the  righ 

Honorable  the  Lord  Gham- 

bcrUme  hiifanAnts. 


WriticahyDiH.  lonHioM. 


Imprin ted  af  London  for  WaU<rBurre,v\dltt  lo 

befcitldat  hhpopfe  in  Pdules  Chtirth-ydrt/e. 

i6ox , 


TITLE  PAGE  OF  BEN  JONSON'S 
'EVERY  MAN  IN  HIS  HUMOUR,"  1601 


^     OF  THE  ^ 

UNIVERSITY  ^^ 


OF 


Prologue 

to  Every  Man  in  his  Humour, 

THOUGH  need  make  many  poets,  and  some  such 
As  art  and  nature  have  not  better'd  much; 
Yet  ours,  for  want,  hath  not  so  loved  the  stage 
As  he  dare  serve  th'  ill  customs  of  the  age. 
Or  purchase  your  delight  at  such  a  rate. 
As  for  it  he  himself  must  justly  hate;  — 
To  make  a  child,  now  swaddled,  to  proceed 
Man,  and  then  shoot  up,  in  one  beard  and  weed, 
Past  threescore  years:   or,  with  three  rusty  swords. 
And  help  of  some  few  foot-and-half-foot  words. 
Fight  over  York  and  Lancaster's  long  jars. 
And  in  the  tyring-house  bring  wounds  to  scars. 
He  rather  prays  you  will  be  pleas'd  to  see 
One  such  to-day,  as  other  plays  should  be; 
Where  neither  chorus  wafts  you  o'er  the  seas; 
Nor  creaking  throne  comes  down,  the  boys  to  please; 
Nor  nimble  squib  is  seen,  to  make  afeard 
The  gentlewomen ;   nor  roll'd  bullet  heard 
To  say  it  thunders;  nor  tempestuous  drum 
Rumbles,  to  tell  you  when  the  storm  doth  come; 
But  deeds  and  language  such  as  men  do  use^ 
And  persons  such  as  comedy  would  choose^ 
When  she  would  show  an  image  of  the  times^ 
And  sport  with  human  follies^  not  with  crimes  — 
Except  we  make  'em  such,  by  loving  still 

[^3] 


Our  popular  errors,  when  we  know  they're  ill. 
1  mean  such  errors  as  you'll  all  confess 
By  laughing  at  them,— they  deserve  no  less  ; 
Which  when  you  heartily  do,  there's  hope  left  then, 
You  that  have  so  grac'd  monsters  may  like  men. 

Ben  Jonson 


[m] 


Epilogue 

Written  for  the  revival  of  Every  Man  in  his  Humour 
in  1675,  by  Charles,  Earl  of  Dorset. 

ENTREATY  shall  not  serve,  nor  violence, 
To  make  me  speak  in  such  a  play's  defence; 
A  play  where  wit  and  humour  do  agree 
To  break  all  practis'd  laws  of  Comedy. 
The  scene  (what  more  absurd!)  in  England  lies; 
No  gods  descend,  nor  dancing  devils  rise; 
No  captive  prince  from  unknown  country  brought; 
No  battle, —  nay,  there's  scarce  a  duel  fought. 
And  something  yet  more  sharply  might  be  said. 
But  I  consider  the  poor  author's  dead: 
Let  that  be  his  excuse.     Now  for  our  own: 
Why,  faith, —  in  my  opinion,  we  need  none. 
The  parts  were  fitted  well;  but  some  will  say, 
"Pox  on  them,  rogues!  what  made  them  choose  this  play?" 
I  do  not  doubt  but  you  will  credit  me, 
It  was  not  choice,  but  mere  necessity. 
To  all  our  writing  friends  in  town  we  sent. 
But  not  a  wit  durst  venture  out  in  Lent: 
Have  patience  but  till  Easter-term,  and  then 
You  shall  have  jig  and  hobby-horse  again.  .  .  . 
For  diverse  weighty  reasons  'twas  thought  fit 
Unruly  sense  should  still  to  rhyme  submit: 
This,  the  most  wholesome  law  we  ever  made, 

[^5] 


So  strictly  in  this  epilogue  obeyed, 

Sure  no  man  here  will  ever  dare  to  break 

[Enter  Ghost  of  Jonson,  interrupting:] 

Hold,  and  give  way!  for  I  myself  will  speak. 

Can  you  encourage  so  much  insolence, 

And  add  new  faults  still  to  the  great  offence 

Your  ancestors  so  rashly  did  commit 

Against  the  mighty  powers  of  art  and  wit? 

When  they  condemned  those  noble  works  of  mine, 

Sejanus,  and  my  best-loved  Catiline. 

Repent,  or  on  your  guilty  heads  shall  fall 

The  curse  of  many  a  rhyming  pastoral. 

All  the  dull  follies  of  the  former  age 

Shall  find  applause  on  this  corrupted  stage ; 

But  if  you  pay  the  great  arrears  of  praise 

So  long  since  due  to  my  much  injured  plays. 

From  all  past  crimes  I  first  will  set  you  free. 

And  then  inspire  some  one  to  write  like  me. 


[26] 


Dickens   and   his    Friends 

in  Every  Man  in  his  Humour, 

1845. 

WE  HAD  chosen  Every  Man  in  his  Humour^  with 
special  regard  to  the  singleness  and  individuality 
of  the  'humours'  portrayed  in  it.  .  .  Maclise 
took  earnest  part  with  us,  and  was  to  have  acted, 
but  fell  away  on  the  eve  of  the  rehearsals;  and  Stanfield,  who 
went  so  far  as  to  rehearse  Downright  twice,  then  took  fright 
and  also  ran  away:  but  Jerrold,  who  played  Master  Stephen, 
brought  with  him  Lemon,  who  took  Brainworm;  Leech,  to 
whom  Master  Matthew  was  given;  A'Beckett,  who  had  con- 
descended to  the  small  part  of  William;  and  Mr.  Leigh,  who 
had  Oliver  Cob.  I  played  Kitely,  and  Bobadil  fell  to  Dick- 
ens, who  took  upon  him  the  redoubtable  Captain  long  before 
he  stood  in  his  dress  at  the  footlights;  humouring  the  com- 
pleteness of  his  assumption  by  talking  and  writing  Bobadil, 
till  the  dullest  of  our  party  were  touched  and  stirred  to  some- 
thing of  his  own  heartiness  of  enjoyment.  One  or  two  hints 
of  these  have  been  given,  and  I  will  only  add  to  them  his 
refusal  of  my  wish  that  he  should  go  and  see  some  special 
performance  of  the  Ga?nester.  'Man  of  the  House.  Game- 
ster! By  the  foot  of  Pharaoh,  I  will  not  see  the  Gamester. 
Man  shall  not  force,  nor  horses  drag,  this  poor  gentleman- 
like carcass  into  the  presence  of  the  Gamester.  I  have  said 
it.  .  .  Thine  as  thou  meritist.  Bobadil  (Captain).  Unto 
Master  Kitely.     These.' 


"The  play  was  played  on  the  21st  of  September  with  a 
success  that  out-ran  the  wildest  expectation;  and  turned  our 
little  enterprise  into  one  of  the  small  sensations  of  the  day. 
The  applause  of  the  theatre  found  so  loud  an  echo  in  the 
press,  that  for  the  time  nothing  else  was  talked  about  in  pri- 
vate circles;  and  after  a  week  or  two  we  had  to  yield  (we  did 
not  find  it  difficult)  to  a  pressure  of  demand  for  more  public 
performance  in  a  larger  theatre,  by  which  a  useful  charity  re- 
ceived important  help.  .  .  1  may  not  farther  indicate  the  en- 
joyments that  attended  the  success,  and  gave  always  to  the 
first  of  our  series  of  performances  a  preeminently  pleasant 
place  in  memory. 

"Of  the  thing  itself,  however,  it  is  necessary  to  be  said 
that  a  modicum  of  merit  goes  a  long  way  in  all  such  matters, 
and  it  would  not  be  safe  now  to  assume  that  ours  was  much 
above  the  average  of  amateur  attempts  in  general.  Lemon 
certainly  had  most  of  the  stuff,  conventional  as  well  as  other- 
wise, of  a  regular  actor  in  him,  but  this  was  not  of  a  high 
kind;  and  though  Dickens  had  the  title  to  be  called  a  born 
comedian,  the  turn  for  it  being  in  his  very  nature,  his  strength 
was  rather  in  the  vividness  and  variety  of  his  assumptions, 
than  in  the  completeness,  finish,  or  ideality  he  could  give  to 
any  part  of  them.  .  .  At  the  same  time  this  was  in  itself  so 
thoroughly  genuine  and  enjoyable,  and  had  in  it  such  quick- 
ness and  keenness  of  insight,  that  of  its  kind  it  was  unri- 
valled; and  it  enabled  him  to  present  in  Bobadil,  after  a 
richly  coloured  picture  of  bombastical  extravagance  and  comic 
exaltation  in  the  earlier  scenes,  a  contrast  in  the  later  of  trag- 
ical humility  and  abasement,  that  had  a  wonderful  effect.     But 

[28] 


greatly  as  his  acting  contributed  to  the  success  of  the  night, 
this  was  nothing  to  the  service  he  had  rendered  as  manager. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  it.  He  was  the  life  and  soul 
of  the  entire  affair.  I  never  seemed  till  then  to  have  known 
his  business  capabilities.  He  took  everything  on  himself, 
and  did  the  whole  of  it  without  effort." 

Forster's  Life  of  Bickens,  Vol.  II,  Chap.  9. 


9] 


It  has  been  thought  that  it  would  prove  interesting  to  repro- 
duce the  portraits  of  certain  of  the  distinguished  men  who  have 
taken  part  as  actors  in  the  production  of  Every  Man  in  his  Humour. 
Accordingly  Shakspere  and  Burbage  have  been  chosen  to  represent 
the  sixteenth  century,  Garrick  the  eighteenth,  and  Dickens  the 
nineteenth. 

Peculiar  interest  attaches  to  the  portrait  of  Shakspere  here 
presented.  It  is  a  reproduction  of  the  painting  discovered  a  few 
years  since,  which  now  hangs  in  the  Shakspere  house  at  Stratford, 
and  which  was  doubtless  the  original  of  the  Droeshout  engraving  in 
the  First  Folio.  There  is  an  interesting,  though  fanciful,  theory 
that  this  represents  Shakspere  in  the  part  of  Knowell  injonson's 
comedy,  —  a  part  attributed  to  him  because  his  name  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  list  of  actors  as  that  of  Knowell  stands  first  among  the 
persons  of  the  play.  James  Boaden,  who  seems  to  have  been  the 
author  of  the  theory,  said  that  *Mt  would  be  difficult  to  exhibit 
anything  more  descriptive  than  this  portrait  of  the  way  in  which 
Shakspere  looked  the  staid,  sensible,  feeling  and  reflecting  father" 
in  the  part  of  Old  Knowell.  And  Elze,  in  his  Life  of  Shakspere y 
is  disposed  to  accept  the  suggestion,  adding  :  **It  is  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  self-sufficiency  of  Jonson  to  find  him  specially  pleased 
with  a  portrait  of  Shakspere  representing  him  as  a  character  from 
one  of  his  plays,  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  Jonson  was  the  happy 
owner  of  the  picture.  He  may  even  have  drawn  it  himself;  .  .  . 
the  portrait  has  every  appearance  of  having  been  drawn  during 
some  theatrical  performance."  Without  accepting  these  interesting 
guesses,  one  may  at  least  linger  longer  over  the  picture  for  the 
supposition. 


[30] 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 


£1^-1  roRV^)^ 


RICHARD  BURBAGE. 


UNIVER 


DAVID  GARRICK. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


AL!FOH>^j!p-" 


Satire   on   a   "Paul's    Man'* 

by  Joseph  Hall. 

1597- 

The  interior  of  old  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  was  a  favorite  lounging-place 
and  rendezvous,  and  one  part  of  it,  frequented  by  young  gentlemen,  was 
called  "  Duke  Humphrey's  Walk."  This  name  was  due  to  the  mistaken 
notion  that  a  monument  overlooking  the  walk  was  that  of  Humphrey, 
Duke  of  Gloucester,  who  died  1447.  "To  dine  with  Duke  Humphrey" 
was  Elizabethan  slang  for  haunting  this  aisle  of  Paul's  in  the  hope  of 
meeting  with  some  one  who  might  provide  a  dinner.  Young  Ruffio,  de- 
scribed in  this  satire,  is  clearly  a  prototype  of  Jonson's  Bobadil. 

SEEST  thou  how  gayly  my  yong  maister  goes, 
Vaunting  himselfe  upon  his  rising  toes, 
And  pranks  his  hand  upon  his  dagger's  side, 
And  picks  his  glutted  teeth  since  late  noon-tide? 
'Tis  Ruffio:  trow'st  thou  where  he  din'd  to-day? 
SJn  sooth  I  saw  him  sit  with  Duke  Humfray. 
Many  good  welcomes,  and  much  gratis  cheere, 
Keepes  he  for  everie  straggling  cavaliere. 
An  open  house,  haunted  with  greate  resort, — 
Long  service,  mixt  with  musicall  disport. 
Many  faire  yonker  with  a  feather'd  crest. 
Chooses  much  rather  be  his  shot-free  guest, 
To  fare  so  freely  with  so  little  cost. 
Than  stake  his  twelvepence  to  a  meaner  host. 
Hadst  thou  not  told  me,  I  should  surely  say 
He  touch't  no  meat  of  all  this  live-long  day. 
For  sure  methought  —  yet  that  was  but  a  guesse  — 
His  eyes  seeme  sunk  for  verie  hollownesse. 

[3'] 


But  could  he  have  (as  I  did  it  mistake) 

So  Httle  in  his  purse,  so  much  upon  his  backe  ? 

So  nothing  in  his  maw?  yet  seemeth  by  his  belt 

That  his  gaunt  gut  no  too  much  stuffing  felt. 

Seest  thou  how  side  it  hangs  beneath  his  hip  ? 

Hunger  and  heavy  iron  makes  girdles  slip. 

Yet  for  all  that,  how  stifly  struts  he  by. 

All  trapped  in  the  new-found  braverie. 

The  nuns  of  new-won  Cales  his  bonnet  lent. 

In  lieu  of  their  so  kind  a  conquerment. 

What  needed  he  fetch  that  from  farthest  Spaine, 

His  grandame  could  have  lent  with  lesser  paine? 

Though  he  perhaps  ne'er  pass'd  the  English  shore. 

Yet  faine  would  counted  be  a  conquerour. 

His  haire,  French-like,  stares  on  his  frighted  head, 

One  lock  amazon-like  disheveled. 

As  if  he  meant  to  weare  a  native  cord. 

If  chaunce  his  fates  should  him  that  bane  afford. 

All  British  bare  upon  the  bristled  skin. 

Close  notched  is  his  beard,  both  lip  and  chin ; 

His  linnen  collar  labyrinthian  set. 

Whose  thousand  double  turnings  never  met; 

His  sleeves  half  hid  with  elbow  pinionings. 

As  if  he  meant  to  flie  with  linnen  wings. 

But  when  I  looke,  and  cast  mine  eyes  below. 

What  monster  meets  mine  eyes  in  human  shew? 

So  slender  waist  with  such  an  abbot's  loyne 

Did  never  sober  nature  sure  conjoyne. 

Like  a  strawne  scare-crow  in  the  new-sowne  field, 

[32] 


Rear'd  on  some  sticke,  the  tender  corne  to  shield; 

Or,  if  that  semblance  suit  not  everie  deale, 

Like  a  broad  shake-fork  with  a  slender  steel. 

Despised  Nature,  suit  them  once  aright, 

Their  bodie  to  their  coate,  both  now  mis-dight; 

Their  bodie  to  their  clothes  might  shapen  be. 

That  nill  their  clothes  shape  to  their  bodie. 

Meanwhile  I  wonder  at  so  proud  a  backe. 

While  th'  empty  guts  loud  rumble  for  long  lacke. 

The  belly  envieth  the  back's  bright  glee, 

And  murmurs  at  such  inequality. 

The  backe  appeales  unto  the  partial  eyne; 

The  plaintive  belly  pleads  they  bribed  been; 

And  he,  for  want  of  better  advocate, 

Doth  to  the  ear  his  injury  relate. 

The  back,  insulting  o'er  the  belly's  need, 

Says,  Thou  thyself,  I  others'  eyes,  must  feed. 

The  maw,  the  guts,  all  inward  parts  complaine 

The  back's  great  pride,  and  their  own  secret  paine. 

Ye  witlesse  gallants,  I  beshrew  your  hearts. 

That  set  such  discord  'twixt  agreeing  parts, 

Which  never  can  be  set  at  onement  more, 

Until  the  maw's  wide  mouth  be  stopt  with  store. 

—  Virgidemiarum,  Book  III,  Satire  7. 


[33] 


A    Satire   on    Humours 
by  John   Marston. 

1598. 

WHO  ever  heard  spruce  skipping  Curio 
E'er  prate  of  aught  but  of  the  whirl  on  toe? 
His  teeth  do  caper  whilst  he  eats  his  meat, 
His  heels  do  caper  whilst  he  takes  his  seat, 
His  very  soul,  his  intellectual, 
Is  nothing  but  a  mincing  capreal. 
He  dreams  of  toe-turns  ;  each  gallant  he  doth  meet 
He  fronts  him  with  a  traverse  in  the  street.  .  .  . 

Luscus,  what's  play'd  to-day?      Faith,  now  1  know 
I  set  thy  lips  abroach,  from  whence  doth  flow 
Nothing  but  pure  Juliet  and  Romeo. 
Say  who  acts  best  ?     Drusus  or  Roscio  ? 
Now  I  have  him  that  ne'er  of  aught  did  speak 
But  when  of  plays  or  players  he  did  treat  — 
Hath  made  a  commonplace-book  out  of  plays. 
And  speaks  in  print :  at  least  whate'er  he  says 
Is  warranted  by  Curtain  plaudit es. 
If  e'er  you  heard  him  courting  Lesbia's  eyes. 
Say  (courteous  sir),  speaks  he  not  movingly. 
From  out  some  new  pathetic  tragedy? 
He  writes,  he  rails,  he  jests,  he  courts  (what  not?), 
And  all  from  out  his  huge  long-scraped  stock 
Of  well-penn'd  plays. 

Oh,  come  not  within  distance  !      Martius  speaks, 

[34] 


Who  ne'er  discourseth  but  of  fencing  feats, 

O^  counter  times^finctures^  sXy  passatas, 

Stramazones^  resolute  stoccatas^ 

Of  the  quick  change  with  wiping  mandritta^ 

The  carricada^  with  the  embrocata, 

"  Oh,  by  Jesu,  sir  !  "  methinks  I  hear  him  cry, 

"  The  honourable  fencing  mystery 

Who  doth  not  honour?"     Then  falls  he  in  again. 

Jading  our  ears.  .  .  . 

But  room  for  Tuscus,  that  jest-monging  youth 
Who  ne'er  did  ope  his  apish  gerning  mouth 
But  to  retail  and  broke  another's  wit. 
Discourse  of  what  you  will,  he  straight  can  fit 
Your  present  talk  with,  "Sir,  I'll  tell  a  jest" 
(Of  some  sweet  lady,  or  grand  lord  at  least). 
Then  on  he  goes,  and  ne'er  his  tongue  shall  lie 
Till  his  engrossed  jests  are  all  drawn  dry.  .  .  . 

O  spruce  !      How  now,  Piso,  Aurelius'  ape, 
What  strange  disguise,  what  new  deformed  shape. 
Doth  hold  thy  thoughts  in  contemplation  ? 
Faith  say  what  fashion  art  thou  thinking  on  ? 
A  stitch'd  taffeta  cloak,  a  pair  of  slops 
Of  Spanish  leather?      Oh,  who  heard  his  chops 
E'er  chew  of  aught  but  of  some  strange  disguise? 
This  fashion-monger,  each  morn  'fore  he  rise. 
Contemplates  suit-shapes,  and  once  from  out  his  bed. 
He  hath  them  straight  full  lively  protrayed. 
All  fashions,  since  the  first  year  of  this  queen, 
May  in  his  study,  fairly  drawn,  be  seen, 

[35] 


And  all  that  shall  be  to  his  day  of  doom; 

For  not  a  fashion  once  dare  show  his  face, 

But  from  neat  Piso  first  must  take  his  grace  : 

The  long  fool's  coat,  the  huge  slop,  the  lugg  d  boot, 

From  mimic  Piso  all  do  claim  their  root. 

O  that  the  boundless  power  of  the  soul 

Should  be  coop'd  up  in  fashioning  some  roll! 

But  O,  Suffenus!   that  doth  hug,  embrace 
His  proper  self,  admires  his  own  sweet  face; 
Praiseth  his  own  limbs'  fair  proportion, 
Kisseth  his  shade,  recounteth  all  alone 
His  own  good  parts  —  who  envies  him?      Not  I, 
For  well  he  may,  without  all  rivalry. 

Fie!  whither's  fled  my  spirit's  alacrity? 
How  dull  I  vent  this  humorous  poesy! 
In  faith  I  am  sad,  I  am  possess'd  with  ruth. 
To  see  tb    vainness  of  fair  Albion's  youth; 
To  see  their  richest  time  even  wholly  spent 
In  that  which  is  but  gentry's  ornament.  .  .  . 
Methinks  your  souls  should  grudge  and  inly  scorn 
To  be  made  slaves  to  humours  that  are  born 
In  slime  of  filthy  sensuality. 

— The  Scourge  of  Villainy,  Satire  XI. 


THE 


.VERSITY   \ 

OF 


^N  ^'^ 


[36 


Ah  Ben  ! 

Say  how  or  when 
Shall  we,  thy  guests. 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 

Made  at  the  Sun, 
The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun ; 
Where  we  such  clusters  had 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad? 
And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 
Out-did  the  meat,  out-did  the  frolic  wine. 

My  Ben! 
Or  come  again. 
Or  send  to  us 
Thy  wif  s  great  overplus; 

But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  husband  it. 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend; 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 
That  precious  stock,  —  the  store. 
Of  such  a  wit  the  world  should  have  no  more. 

—  Robert  Herrick, 
[37] 


The  comedy  of  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  is  produced, 
and  this  book  is  pubHshed,  under  the  direction  of  the  following 
Committee  of  the  Stanford  English  Club: 

Edward   Kirby  Putnam,  Chairman 
Raymond   Macdonald  Alden 
Lee  Emerson   Bassett 
John  Francis  Cassell 
Carolyn  Z.  Edwards 
Hugh  Anderson   Moran 
Delmar   Milton   Reynolds 
William   Henry  Thomson 
Katharine  Ethel  Traphagen 

In  illustrating  the  book  the  Committee  has 
had  the  valuable  assistance  of  Miss  Jeannette  M. 
Hayward  and  Mr.  Henry  R.  Johnson. 


[38] 


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